al, as if to demand their attention; she then oscillated gently
to and fro for a few seconds to get up the steam, and concluded the
performance by suddenly flinging her head back, with an insane jerk,
over the rail of the chair, at the imminent risk of breaking her neck,
uttering a loud snort of triumph as she did so.

Trusting the reader will pardon, and the humane society award me a medal
for this long digression, I resume the thread of my narrative.

"Freddy, my dear, can't you sing us that droll Italian song your cousin
Lucy taught you? I'm sure poor Miss Saville must feel quite dull and
melancholy."

~261~~ "Would to Heaven she did!" murmured I to myself. "Who is to play
it for me?" asked Coleman. "Well, my love, I'll do my best," replied his
mother; "and, if I should make a few mistakes, it will only sound all
the funnier, you know."

This being quite unanswerable, the piano was opened, and, after Mrs.
Coleman's spectacles had been hunted for in all probable places, and
discovered at last in the coal-scuttle, a phenomenon which that good
lady accounted for on the score of "John's having flurried her so when
he brought in tea"; and when, moreover, she had been with difficulty
prevailed on to allow the music-book to remain the right way upwards,
the song was commenced.

As Freddy had a good tenor voice, and sang the Italian _buffa_ song with
much humour, the performance proved highly successful, although Mrs.
Coleman was as good as her word in introducing some original and
decidedly "funny" chords into the accompaniment, which would have
greatly discomposed the composer, if he had by any chance overheard
them.

"I did not know that you were such an accomplished performer, Freddy,"
observed I; "you are quite an universal genius."

"Oh, the song was capital!" said Miss Saville, "and Mr. Coleman sang it
with so much spirit."

"Really," returned Freddy, with a low bow, "you do me proud, as brother
Jonathan says; I am actually-- that is, positively--"

"My dear Freddy," interrupted Mrs. Coleman, "I wish you would go and
fetch Lucy's music; I'm sure Miss Saville can sing some of her songs;
it's--let me see--yes, it's either downstairs in the study, or in the
boudoir, or in the little room at the top of the house, or, if it isn't,
you had better ask Susan about it."

"Perhaps the shortest way will be to consult Susan at once," replied
Coleman, as he turned to leave the room.

"I presume you prefer _buffa_ son